How Rock Became a Man
by Cal reflector
Summary: What could be worse than waking up in a tropical paradise next to a beautiful woman? Rock is about to find out.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I normally do not write such naughty fics, even for the sake of laughter, and apologize to those who have familiarized themselves with my past works. There is a moral lesson to be drawn from this fic however and it is my hope that by the end of the story the lesson will have become all but apparent. If not, then hopefully you were just too entertained to notice.

Disclaimer: I do not own Black Lagoon.

**How Rock became a Man**

The former Japanese salary man known as Rock forced his eyelids open, the light of day a blinding glare in spite of the half-shuttered window blinds. Of course, his name was not actually Rock, for his parents were neither fans of the American wrestler turned movie star nor deliberately cruel towards their newborn. He had a real name back in episode one, a Japanese one which everyone, including most viewers, had forgotten by the first commercial break. So now he was simply Rock, which was fine, because his real name was long, boring, and a pain to Romanize correctly. But I digress.

On this presumably beautiful morning, Rock awoke to the pleasant sensation of an ammunition dump cooking off in his head. Feeling as though his skull might split, he sat up with his hand pressed against his eyes (for they felt as if they would fall out of their sockets). His other hand groped against slippery bed sheets for support, knocking an empty shot glass over in the process. When he felt his vision had adjusted sufficiently to the brightness in the room, he withdrew his hand and took in his surroundings: Big bedroom with vaulted ceiling and classically styled furniture, glass encased bookshelves, dark wood and velvet, scents of cigar, perfume, and dregs of hard liquor, an expensive home theater system and a big screen television playing muted static. The environment seemed familiar; he could have sworn he knew the place, as there were only so few truly upscale locations in this sin city of sin cities. He also knew that he had the worse hangover of his life, and thus his memory—or any other function requiring his brain—couldn't be vouched for.

It was only then that he began to notice the critical details that normally one tries to take note of first when waking up with a hangover in a room not one's own: His clothes and that of another person's, flung about in a state which suggested the haste with which they were removed. In the far corner of the suite lay a shattered vase, an antique lamp had toppled and fell off the nightstand to his right, and the leg of an expensive sofa had broken off, telltale evidence of the vigor and radius of action of last night's activities.

And of course he was butt naked, bed sheets covering his private parts, protecting his decency and keeping this fic's content rating below M.

He hung his head (cringing as he did so) and sighed. So that was it; he'd gotten roaring drunk and hooked up with a random stranger. Rock was no saint; he understood that in this city, incidents such as these were more common and far less serious than real booboos like serial homicide and defecating in someone's backyard. Still, there remained in that heart of his a shred of moral decency, left over from the public school system and his mother's teachings to him as a child that all frowned on this sort of behavior. So he felt guilty; guilty for letting himself get out of control, for not remembering what happened, for breaking the expensive-looking furniture that may have belonged to the poor woman's grandmother. As he considered his apology and how he much he should compensate her, he finally turned to look at the woman who shared his bed, something any man in his situation would have done first but was put off in order to buy the author enough time to build suspense.

As the readers held their collective breaths and as his eyes widened in recognition, Rock petrified. For next to him, gold hair spilled over white sheets and face relaxed in an expression he never knew existed laid none other than Balalaika, ex-Soviet Special Forces commander, decorated war veteran, mob queen; Scariest Woman on The Planet in a story that was full of scary women.

And then Balalaika woke up.

Though his body was frozen like stone, Rock's head was clear as day, the exploding ammunition dump in his hung-over mind wiped out by blinding sobriety brought about by the sight of the woman who was stirring awake beside him. In between the images of his life flashing before his eyes, the small part of his brain not preoccupied with fear noticed that, with her hair down and her frown absent, Balalaika was not an unattractive woman. People's attentions, including his own, always focused on the scars that covered her face and her chest, but not on her firmly toned figure and two-colored irises; one blue and one green.

Nevertheless, these admiring thoughts were quickly extinguished when said eyes met his, and beautiful became intimidating. He figured that she kept a gun under her bed, and any minute now the usual Balailaka would come to her senses and put an end to him. But instead of reaching under her pillow, the ex-special forces commander reached instead for him and traced her fingertips across his bare chest, a languid smile on her face, causing a shiver to run through Rock's spine, an involuntary reaction out of both fear and pleasure.

"Good morning, Rock. Was it good for you too?"

Her voice was like a purr, and the shock of hearing the Scariest Woman on The Planet use that tone of voice regained him the use of his speech. "Ms. Balalaika, I, I… we…"

"Calm down. You're stuttering." With the sheets pulled up around her chest, Balalaika cut and lit herself a cigar, and soon the room was filled anew with the strong scent of burning tobacco, which only worsened the ill-feelings in Rock's stomach. Balalaika, meanwhile, seemed the perfect image of contentment, savoring a smoke after a night of tumultuous passion. "From the look on your face, I'd say that right now you're fearing for your life and you have no idea how we ended up like this. Am I right?"

Rock nodded and swallowed, the saliva hardly making its way down his parched throat. Balalaika blew a ring of smoke, one arm resting atop her knees. "Well you can relax. I'm not going to kill you anytime soon."

She smiled at him again, thoroughly unnerving him, and seeing that his words were stuck again, the Russian lady chuckled and pointed her cigar at the pitcher of water beside him, watching him as he gulped down the two glasses quickly.

"I hope that wasn't your first time or anything; I would hate to be burdened with guilt for deflowering you or other sentimental nonsense. Anyways, how we got here." Stubbing out her half-smoked cigar on a silver ashtray, the mob boss rose from bed and headed towards a closet, completely ignoring her own exposure and the color on her partner's face. "I had a shipment of videos from Japan that I needed to edit. Stale, dreadful stuff, what your country produces. In order to make the process go faster, I called you to help me with the editing."

"And I agreed to this?"

"I didn't tell you what we were doing until you got here, only that the pay would be good." After slipping into a crimson silk robe, Balalaika plopped down on a recliner and lit another Cuban. "The whole process took forever; it must have been past two when we started drinking. The quality of the videos was better than I expected though, if your reaction was anything to go by. Guess it depends on the audience after all."

Rock buried his face in his hands and shook his head as the memory of the events leading up to last night crept back into his mind. "Oh… oh crap, I'm so sorry…"

A look of irritation appeared on the mob boss' face for the first time that morning. "Sheesh, what happened to the _man_ from last night? Or was it only because the last time I had one was in a tent in Afghanistan?"

Inside Rock's chest, his pride—or what was left of it—showed some signs of life and he managed to regain enough composure to ask the next all-important question. "What happens now?"

"Breakfast."

"No thanks, I'm not hungry."

"In that case you're free to go. Oh and don't worry about the furniture, wasn't like my grandmother gave it to me or anything."

Climbing out of bed, Rock went about the unsavory task of finding and putting on his clothes while trying to maintain his dignity, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that the various articles were impossibly dispersed throughout the large premises. The situation could not have been any worse.

------

He finally found his shoe behind the shower curtains in the bathroom. Properly attired except for a few missing buttons on his short-sleeved dress shirt, Rock felt comfortable enough to face the world again as he stood by the doorway, his hand behind his head as he looked sheepishly at the floor. "I don't know how I'll ever make this up to you, Miss. Balalaika.

"Seeing how we both benefited from last night, I'd say we're even. I'll be sure to call you next time I have need of your… editing skills."

Her tone of voice left no doubt in Rock's mind that it wasn't his editing skills that he'd be called for next time, and his face was aghast as she closed the door on him with a smile. As he made towards the exit of the building, he found himself the recipient of many respectful looks from the Hotel Moscow men he passed by. Sergeant Boris, the powerful second in command, even saluted him on the way out. As he walked home, he wondered how Dutch and the crew might react if he told them that he bedded Balalaika.

Then he decided that he never wanted to find out.

In Roanapur, it was the beginning of another beautiful day.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: There wasn't meant to be a sequel; this madness was supposed to have ended with a one shot. There will be no promise of a sequel to this.

Disclaimer: I do not own Black Lagoon.

**How Rock Became a Man: Part Two**

"Hey Dutch?"

"Yeah Rock?"

"I have a question I was hoping you could help me out with."

"So long as it's not about money or Revy, shoot."

Inside the cramped and sweltering office of the Lagoon Transport Company, the former Japanese salary man fidgeted with the writing pad in his lap as he reconsidered his course of action. His employer meanwhile was watching television, leaning back in his brown leather office chair with his hands resting behind his head and his boots on top of the desk.

"Well, what I wanted to ask was…"

"Wait, shut it for just a second." The bespectacled veteran sat forward in his seat. A few minutes later, after the titular hero succeeded in bringing down the enemy helicopter with nothing but a Swiss Army knife, rubber bands, and duct tape, Dutch chuckled heartily before settling back into his seat and popping open a can of beer. "I love it when MacGyver does his duct tape thing. Now, you were saying."

"Yes, I wanted to ask your advice on something that has been on my mind for a while."

"Uh-huh?"

"How do you date an aggressive woman who keeps a body count that's higher than Rambo's?"

The beer paused on the way to Dutch's lips; he turned to look at Rock. "I thought I said no questions about Revy; that's between you and her and I don't want any part of that."

"It's not about Revy, just… hypothetically speaking."

"Ok-ay…" If Dutch was curious he showed no sign of it; a man did not thrive in his line of work by asking unnecessary, potentially ruinous, shit-in-the-fan questions. "Then my answer is: you don't."

"What if you didn't have a choice?"

Dutch set down his can of beer, his brows knitting together in concern. "We are talking about a hypothetical situation here, aren't we?"

Rock lied. "Yeah."

"Right then, well, if I were in a position where I was trapped into a relationship with a female Hannibal Lecter, who would hunt me and down and make a banjo out of me if I tried to run, then I would just try to make the best of it. Is this hypothetical woman we're talking about good in the sack?"

Rock answered honestly this time. "I don't know, maybe."

"Then what have you got to complain about?"

For Rock, whose head began to hurt, the counseling session was heading in the utterly wrong direction. At that moment, the phone on Dutch's desk rang which the big man picked up after the first ring.

"Lagoon Company, Dutch speaking… A good day to you too, Ms. Balalaika… Yes, he's here… I got it, I'll let him know." He replaced the phone on the receiver. "Balalaika wants help with foreign subtitles on a new shipment of videos. She wants to see you at their compound at 6:00PM; dinner's on them."

Rock checked his watch and heaved a heavy sigh. "I guess I'd better go get ready then."

Dutch gave a small wave with the remote as the salary man stood to leave. "Don't work too hard, and give my regards to Boris; tell him that we'll go fishing sometime."

After Rock left, Dutch finished his beer and crumpled the can into a wad before reaching for another. He was half way into an old episode of _Friends_ before Benny opened the door and walked in. "I just saw Rock leave. Was he feeling okay? He didn't look too good."

"Yeah, boy's acting strange, was just here asking me all sorts of weird shit."

"Like what?"

"How to date a woman who's aggressive and kills people."

"Revy?"

"Nah, said it was just a hypothetical question."

"Well, that description fits just about every woman Rock has come into contact with since he joined us, but I doubt any of them are the type to be interested in a dating relationship." Benny appeared to fall deep into thought before his eyes lit up. "… Except maybe Balalaika, who's been asking for Rock quite often lately, and we all know how much interest the Queen of the Russian Mob has shown him in the past…"

The pregnant silence that followed was soon shattered by the sound of bellowing laughter from both men. Dutch pounded the much-abused table with his fist several times before he caught his breath. "Good one, Benny Boy. I can see it right now, Rock and Balalaika sitting in a nice restaurant, sipping Merlot and talking about their favorite movies; you've cracked me up before, but this one takes the cake."

"Yeah seriously," Benny continued to chuckle as he took off his glasses and wiped away a tear. "And here's something even crazier; picture this… Balalaika in a dress."

This time, the pedestrians on the street two floors below raised their heads at the hysterical outburst from above.

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Despite knowing better table manners from years of keeping up appearances in front of clients during meals, Rock could not help but turn in his seat to take in the crystal and velvet surroundings which he found himself in. Behind them, a picturesque French couple—who had no business in a hell hole like Roanapur but served to help illustrate the atmosphere—whispered elegant-sounding gibberish to each other, while a string quartet played in the far corner. "I didn't know the city had such a nice restaurant."

Balalaika swirled a glassful of $200 wine and smiled. "Where there's money to be made, venues will exist to satisfy the needs for conspicuous consumption."

"Thorstein Veblen,_Theory of the Leisure Class_?"

"Part of a complete Soviet education." The mob queen was dressed in a deep crimson one piece with a slit that trailed along her thigh up to her waist. "The suit looks good on you."

Rock smiled sheepishly as he straightened out the Versace. "Thank you; it's been a while since I wore one. Your dress is…" His gaze drifted to where the designer had intended male eyes to follow before he realized just who he was ogling, "very nice too."

The woman sitting across from him chuckled in a deep rich voice and his face turned a shade darker as the waiter arrived with two tiny cups of coffee. Learning his lesson from last time, he decided to ask the important questions before events got out of hand. "I don't mean to sound rude, Ms. Balalaika, but I really can't figure out the reason for all this; the suit, this nice dinner…"

"I understand that in America, it is customary for two people to go out on a date before they engage in intercourse." The former paratroop commander took a sip from the dainty cup and replaced the China on the tray. "Seeing how we skipped straight to the intercourse, consider this a makeup."

_So it's true then,_ Rock thought to himself as he emptied his glass and poured himself another, _I'm on a date with Balalaika; this wine, that risqué outfit of hers, it's not all an illusion in my mind caused by heatstroke or that stir fry Revy cooked last night. What the hell did she put in there anyways? Why didn't Dutch and Benny warn me? Whose turn was it to cook tonight? We're out of vinegar; I need to go shopping…_

As his mind strayed away from the present through an unconscious train of denial, the sensation of something touching his leg brought him back into reality. His hands fisted into the table linen when what could only be Balalaika's foot began sliding up and down along the length of his dress pants. His next words came out strained as he loosened the tie around his neck. "Um… Ms. Balalaika, I thought uh… you wanted me to help you with some translating?"

She smiled serenely as her toe drew small circles against his knee. "That's right. I've reserved a room in the hotel upstairs, we can work there. There's… much to be done, so I hope you're prepared for an all-nighter."

Rock swallowed hard; he tried to picture Dutch in a Speedo, he tried to imagine Benny in a thong, he tried to recall all the times Revy beat his ass, anything repulsive and unpleasant to cool his blood and counteract the treacherous ways in which his body was responding to Balalaika's ministrations. The struggle between id and super-ego continued all the way into the suite, by which time his jacket and tie were discarded and his hands were acting on a will of their own, roving and slipping beneath the sheer fabric through the opening at her side.

With a monumental effort he summoned his remaining will power and protested. "Ms. Balalaika, I… we…"

She held a bottle of vodka in her hand, and before he could complete his sentence he found himself cut off as she pressed her lips to his and force fed him the liquor mouth to mouth.

Id prevailed, and super-ego died messily under a steam roller.

-------------

Thousands of miles away, lying on a recliner beneath the shade of a pool umbrella, eleven year old Garcia Loveless looked up from his copy of G. G. Marquez's _One Thousand Years of Solitude_. "Did you hear that, Roberta?"

Climbing out from the aqua-colored pool in a glistening white bikini, Roberta walked towards where her master was. "Hear what, young master?"

"That sound, like silk tearing. That was the sound of a man's last vestige of self-control breaking; the sound that's made when the beast residing every male snaps off the chains forged by society and emerges in his primitive state of nature, unleashing every suppressed desire accumulated over a lifetime from a culture that demands conformity, a career that quashes individuality, and an upbringing by distant parents who didn't read to their child enough."

Roberta nodded, understanding without effort everything the freaky-smart kid just said. When she reached for her glasses on the table, she felt his hand come to rest over hers.

"Leave them; you look better this way."

"… As you wish."


End file.
